


With Needle and Thread

by Rachael Sabotini (wickedwords)



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Community: atlantis_lvw, Daily life on Atlantis, Gen, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-10-01
Updated: 2006-10-01
Packaged: 2018-03-20 12:24:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3650220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wickedwords/pseuds/Rachael%20Sabotini
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Worn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	With Needle and Thread

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally written for the _Last Visible Writer_ game, prompt 'Repairs'.
> 
> Thank you sherrold for doing the beta.

Teyla glides over, skirt swirling around her legs, sticks ready. John watches each step she makes intently, trying to get a feel for what will happen next. She lunges right; he dodges left, but he's not fast enough, never fast enough. He winces as his wrist gets hit and his fingers go numb. "Shit." The stick falls from his hand, clattering on the ground.

"Are you all right, Major Sheppard?" She looks attentive, but doesn't reach for him, doesn't try to help him in any way. Briefly, he wonders if that was the way she was taught, back when she was first learning to fight, or if they made allowances when she was a child. 

It doesn't really matter, though; what matters is her calm, the reserved distance. John's never enjoyed being coddled. 

"Just peachy," he says, shaking out his hand. He feels a sharp prick on his wrist, and the faded black cloth he wears around it slips off, drifting down onto the warm, sun-lit floor, the elastic giving way at last. John scoops the cloth up and shoves it in his pocket once his fingers are working, then picks up his stick. "Let's try that again, shall we?" 

"The outcome will be no different," Teyla says, smiling lightly at him. 

"Humor me." John says, and darts in to meet her. 

* * *

Later, he sits in his room with his wristband in one hand, needle in the other, bright desk light shining on them both. The intense light lets him see how worn the fabric is, how there are several places that look ready to tear. His grandfather's shadow leans against his desk as John pins the pieces together, telling him to toss it; in his mind's eye, his grandmother shoos him off, whispering to John to mend it, that nothing is as broken as it looks. His hands tremble as he tries to work the pins, to make the fabric and elastic mesh together in a single whole; his fingers already ache from the detail work required. He takes a deep breath, and another, waiting for the tremors to subside before he starts to work again, patching and re-patching the fabric, knitting it whole. 


End file.
